


Cardamine

by legendtripper



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: 5+1 Things, And All the Hazards That Come With It, Angst with a Happy Ending, Basically TW: Suicide and Suicidal Ideation, Character Study, Detroit: Become Family Event, Domestic Fluff, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hank Has Some Moments, He's Tired and Has a Crisis of Philosophy, Implied/Referenced Suicide, It's the Whole Russian Roulette Chapter, M/M, Platonic Relationships, Please Look Out For Your Mental Health, Soft Boys Need Naps, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, There Are Many Cuddles, other than that, thank you, these tags are insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:42:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24783298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/legendtripper/pseuds/legendtripper
Summary: "The first time a machine saves his life, Hank doesn’t even have the proper capacity to thank it."OR: Hank’s Perspective On The Five Times Connor Saved Him and the One Time Hank Saved Connor Back
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor
Comments: 14
Kudos: 178





	Cardamine

**Author's Note:**

> So. I wrote this for the "Danger" prompt of the 2020 Detroit: Become Family Event on Tumblr (@dbh-found-family), but I got, well, a lot sidetracked. I was supposed to have this done by last week, but then life happened and then there was a major plot hole I had to fix and suddenly it was the following Wednesday. Happens to the best of us, I suppose.
> 
> Either way, despite it being a week late, I hope you enjoy my contribution to this lovely event celebrating platonic Hank and Connor!
> 
> Also, major shoutouts to [bakasara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakasara), for letting me know this event existed, [salemforshort](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salemforshort), for cheering me on, and [DomLerrys](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DomLerrys/pseuds/DomLerrys), for being the most astute beta reader I've had in awhile. Love you guys!

I.

The first time a machine saves his life, Hank doesn’t even have the proper capacity to thank it.

All he’s consciously aware of is the blood rushing in his ears, the way his body aches, every muscle screaming in agony. The stinging of his palms, echoing the phantom pains of scraping them raw against concrete. The terrible knowledge that the most solid lead they’ve had in weeks is gone.

Because _Connor_ chose to save _him_.

Hank’s fallen off of buildings before. It comes with the territory; a hazard of the workplace, one might say. In his time on Detroit’s police force, Hank’s been kicked, shot, stabbed, tranqued, and beaten within an inch of his life. A particularly nasty run-in with a local drug lord had once put him in a full-body cast for weeks.

But never, in all his years of service, has someone—some _thing_ , Hank reprimands himself, for all Connor looks and acts like a person, it’s not alive—actually bothered to catch him.

 _It shouldn’t be this hard_ , Hank thinks to himself, gaze flicking over to the android sitting silently in his passenger seat, its closed eyes giving it a serene air. Only the soft yellow glow reflected in the window opposite himself gives Hank any indication that all is not well in his partner’s processors. _It’s just a thank you, you’ve said “thank you” a million times_.

_But never to an android._

Never to an android.

What Hank eventually settles on is a quiet, measured, “Don’t beat yourself up. We’ll find him.”

The machine in his car almost musters a similitude of a smile.

“Of course.”

_No “thank yous.”_

Not yet.

II.

The damn light bulb’s burnt out again.

The filament flickers erratically, and it’s goddamn _annoying_. Hank flips it the bird rather lackadaisically, his muscles don’t want to cooperate.

If Hank were sober-er, he might be bothered to pull the step ladder from the garage and fix it. _Might_ being the operative word. Even on a good day, his work ethic is questionable at best.

But none of that matters because Hank is currently trying to get so drunk he can’t remember his own name. So he can’t remember _anything_.

The silence of the house is oppressive. It feels like a personal attack, almost, as if the walls are having a laugh at his misfortune. Judging him. Every crack in the peeling wallpaper, every dirty year-old coffee stain on the living room rug, every strobe of that _goddamn lightbulb_ drives home the absence that has its fist in his chest, clenching his heart until it pounds so loudly Hank can’t hear the passing of the cars, the spattering of the rain on the windows.

 _It shouldn’t have been like this_ , Hank muses bitterly, sloshing the whiskey in a formerly-polished tumbler now streaked with months of greasy fingerprints. A little spills onto the table and he can’t find the willpower to mop it up. Five years ago, maybe. Maybe he could’ve, when his wife still cared, when _he_ still cared. When Cole was still alive.

_Cole._

Who _should’ve_ celebrated his ninth birthday this year, who _should’ve_ been filling the house with skinned knees and homework troubles and maybe a few detention slips because honestly, he was Hank’s kid and what else should he expect. _Who should’ve been alive_.

If it weren’t for that damn android.

Damn him. Damn the lot of them.

 _Not Connor_ , a part of his brain, some tiny part that hasn’t been killed by the alcohol yet, supplies.

 _No, Connor too_ , Hank corrects himself. His glass is empty. The bottle’s on the counter, too far to reach. _Just because he looks like a person doesn’t mean he is one_.

Across the table from him is his trusty revolver, a simple six-chamber, dulled pewter and chipped wood. It’s never failed him.

Except on nights like this, though Hank refuses to count these nights because all he needs is yet another string of failures under his fucking belt.

Hank rubs his eyes, groaning, and shambles his way over to the kitchen, taking a swig straight from the bottle of Black Lamb. The lights hurt his eyes, and Hank snorts quietly; if this much is too bright _now_ , he can’t imagine what pain daylight will bring. 

He can't help a choked laugh at the thought. That’s a lie. He _can_ imagine, all too well. He’s been this drunk too many times to count on both hands. He knows what the inevitable rising of the sun entails. A raging headache and a slowly growing knot of guilt in his gut. It’s nothing new.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he manages to slur together, mind foggy with a familiar numbness. He stumbles back to the dining room table, ignoring Sumo’s soft _borfs_ of concern, and picks the gun up, turning it over. The weight of it in his hands is comforting, almost. He’s secure in the knowledge that a simple _click_ is enough to opt out. He’d tried to rationalize it in any number of ways, but the plain and simple truth is the fact that knowing he has a one-way ticket to the afterlife available to him at any time puts him at some strange, disquieted peace. Nihilism? Masochism? Depression he’d given up fighting sometime in October of 2035? He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t care.

_Click._

He doesn’t even flinch anymore.

 _Click_.

Two down, four to go. He places a hand on the back of his wooden chair.

 _Click_.

One of these days, his terrible, cruel luck is sure to run out.

 _Click_.

“Fuck Connor,” he mumbles, slamming the framed photo of his son to the table in what may be his last defiant act on this earth.

 _Click_.

“Fuck him… and the goddamn plastic horse he rode in on.”

_Shit. When did Connor become a “him”?_

And that’s when his head hits the floor, darkness swallowing him without a sound.

As they wind down from the Eden Club, hours later, Hank can’t quite remember what it was he thought before falling unconscious. (An “ethylic coma,” Connor calls it, because it just can’t leave well enough alone and call it “ _f_ _ucked up_ ” like a goddamn human being.) But he feels like it must have been important.

And if he smiles at the machine in the passenger seat, synthetic body illuminated red by the stoplight?

_What of it?_

III.

One of these days, Hank will be smart enough not to come here.

The bitter chill of Detroit winter does nothing to soothe his frayed nerves, and the beer in his blood only numbs his hands, not his brain. Snow falls in random spurts from the sky, like some heavenly being tapping its cigarette into an ashtray, letting the papery flakes descend en masse in a devastating display of universal hubris.

The suspension cables of Ambassador Bridge creak, just as they always have; bending, but never stretched far enough to snap. Across the river, lights of highrises and passing cars twinkle merrily, unaware of the plights of the humans that roam the city streets, those who look on in disgust at all this so-called _progress_. Hank rolls his eyes at that one.

 _Progress my ass_.

As soon as the last drops of alcohol drip from the bottle, a new one makes its way into Hank’s shaky grip. He pops it open with a satisfying hiss, listening to the cap _tink_ against the concrete.

One of these days, Hank won’t be so prone to torturing himself.

But as long as that _thing_ is there, looking at him like there’s something _worth_ looking at, he’ll come.

He hasn’t seen that look since Cole.

Footsteps sound softly behind him, the distinct mechanical click of patent leather dress shoes that Hank’s become all too familiar with in the past few days. He supposes it was foolish of him to think Connor would respect his wishes and _stay in the damn car for once_ —hell, it wasn’t like it'd ever done it before, Hank doesn’t know why he thought this time would be any different—but at the same time, the android’s company is the last thing he needs right now. He’s already so tangled up in his head, throwing a fucking net into the equation isn’t gonna help.

Connor. Where to even _fucking_ begin.

Hank stares at the foam of his shitty gas station beer, aware there’s probably a good deal stuck in his beard already but unwilling to care enough to wipe it away. The bubbles fizz slightly, and maybe if he were home alone, he could hear them, but the noises of the passing cars and the waves breaking along the riverbanks drown out everything but his thoughts.

And Connor’s stupid fucking shoes.

Hank doesn’t know how he feels about Connor. It’s probably just the alcohol, but it’s getting harder and harder to think of Connor as an _it_. Especially since it let those girls go, but Hank doesn’t even have time to acknowledge that, let alone analyze it properly.

Hank is angry, obviously. And scared, and alone, and just so damn _tired_. Coming out to the bridge is cathartic, somehow, in the way throwing a vase or breaking a mirror is cathartic. It feels good in the moment, but all he does is cut himself in the cleanup.

Connor isn’t the mirror, that would be too simple. Nor is Connor the delicate yet deadly shards of ceramic and glass left behind, an unintentionally harmful product of someone else’s rage. Connor is … it’s … _he’s_ … just Connor.

That sounds right.

But that’s something to unpack another day.

Right now, all Hank wants to do is wallow in his own memory, drinking liquid nostalgia until he passes out and _goddamn Connor_ takes him home in his own shitbox of a car. The most comfort and care Hank’s received in years comes from a fucking _android_.

The irony isn’t entirely lost on him.

And hell, he might have been willing to talk if Connor hadn’t been so _different._ If he were sober—a sentence Hank finds himself thinking more and more often these days—maybe he would’ve picked up on the conflicting ideas warring in his partner’s head. Because Connor’s afraid. Hank can see that much.

But _why_?

What does a _machine_ have to fear? It’s not like they have friends. Or family. Can’t lose anyone. Can’t even _die_ properly, all they do is come back _again_ and _again_ and _again_.

Just like Cole couldn’t.

Hank doesn’t know what possesses him to pull his gun, what makes him shove it in Connor’s too-symmetrical face, what makes him believe _any_ of this is a good idea. Connor levels him with a calm gaze, but Hank can sense the mental calculations running overtime.

He never knew androids could be scared of dying.

Though Connor jokes and placates and says all the right things, he’s terrified. Hank’s a goddamn cop, even in his inebriated state, he can tell. Something’s finally clicking into place, and his look of uncertainty is all it takes for Hank not to pull the trigger. This time.

Hank almost thinks Connor’s _relieved_.

Strike one for the revolver, perfect record ruined.

IV.

Hank absolutely despises being caught unawares.

He doesn’t know if it’s coincidence, poor planning, or his own patented brand of shitty luck, but now that Connor’s with him, it seems to be happening more and more often. Nearly every day, Hank finds himself inches away from death from some surprise attack, and every damn time, it’s Connor who manages to deal with it, tossing Hank aside like a ragdoll. Be it pushing him out of the way of a stray bullet, pulling him to the ground, or just barely giving him a “Look out, Hank!” before charging down the hallway, Connor always manages to get one step ahead of him, leaving Hank solidly in the dust, wondering _what in the holy hell just happened?_

So, safe to say, Hank absolutely despises _Connor_.

After the incident on the rooftop, Hank had harbored a tiny flicker of hope that maybe his partner had finally pulled the stick out of its ass and would be more willing to cooperate in life-or-death scenarios.

Well. He was wrong.

The Stratford Tower sabotage is something Hank feels woefully under-qualified to handle. Not that he’d ever let _Perkins_ know that, the smug bastard. So Hank makes a show of agreeing with Connor, pretending he knows what the fuck he’s doing and that _he totally doesn’t need the FBI’s help, thank you very much_.

It only takes a second for things to go horribly wrong.

One moment, he and Connor are bent over a pool of blue blood—he figures this must be freshly spilled if he can still see it—and the next, Connor’s gone off by itself, leaving Hank to make nice with one of the officers in the hallway.

And then the screaming starts.

Officials standing in the broadcast studio are shrieking something unintelligible and then another, familiar voice cuts above the rest:

“ _There’s a deviant!_ ”

Hank barely has time to register what’s happening before he finds himself rather violently shoved to the polished concrete floor. His head cracks against the ground, bright lights clouding his vision as deafening gunshots echo around the hallway above him. He has half a mind to shield himself, to curl up and run from the blasts, but the ringing in his ears and a strange weight on his chest prevent him from doing so.

_Where’s Connor?_

It takes a little while for Hank to collect his thoughts.

When he comes to properly, the first thing he notices is the quiet. Turning his head to the left, he spies the body of a reporter, face down and motionless, a pool of blood collecting under their torso.

Hank groans. This is gonna be a PR nightmare.

It’s then that he realizes that the thing on his chest is _Connor_ , hands fisted tightly in the fabric of Hank’s jacket. Its head is buried in the crook of Hank’s neck.

 _Connor. Connor had pushed him out of the way of the bullets_.

Against his will, almost, a sudden pang of fondness lurches its way through him, heart stuttering for a moment (though that may just be the adrenaline).

Quirking a brow, he gingerly extricates himself from Connor’s grip, almost smiling at his partner’s antics. Maybe the android’s annoying tendency to stay one step ahead isn’t so bad.

Hank hauls himself off the floor, taking in the grisly sight before him. Corpses. Of reporters, of officers, of CSI techs, of station management. The deviant lies crumpled in a pool of Thirium at the end of the hallway, fingers clenched tightly around a stolen machine gun. At least they _caught_ the damn thing.

“Good thing you were here,” he mumbles absentmindedly in Connor’s direction, brushing off his coat. “Otherwise, I—”

Hank’s coat is wet. Soaked.

The pit of his stomach drops.

He turns to face where his partner should be.

The eye-level space is empty, and with a sinking feeling, Hank looks down.

It’s Connor, motionless. Bullet wounds riddle the back of its formerly pristine gray CyberLife jacket— _eight in the back, one in the hand_ , Hank’s brain supplies unhelpfully, _wait, the hand is from something else_ —and Thirium gushes from the holes so fast the whole damn jacket’s bright blue.

Despite the fact that Hank _knows_ Connor isn’t alive, isn’t even really a _person_ , the sight of it, splayed out on the ground, limbs and joints bent at hideously awkward angles, almost ragdoll-esque, pulls at something in his chest.

Hank’s breathing accelerates.

Connor _died_ , or at the very least _shut down_ , saving his goddamn sorry ass. Hank, who’d done nothing except botch the mission for the both of them. Hank, who’d been anywhere from unpleasant to downright nasty to it— _Hank, you idiot, get a fucking grip, it’s_ “him”—since the day he waltzed into Jimmy’s.

Even with the animosity between them, Connor saved him. _Twice._ And because of Hank’s inability to do his fucking job, he died.

_First the rooftop, then my house, then the bridge, and now this._

The car ride from the tower is strangely melancholy.

Hank cranks the radio as loud as it’ll go all the way home.

V.

Once Hank and Connor make it out of this, Hank’s kicking himself.

And then he’s giving Connor a goddamn _hug_. Which is still an absolutely batshit insane concept, but, then again, so is the visual of _two_ Connors standing before him, one pressing a handgun to his temple, the other clutching the arm of a factory-set android.

He should’ve seen it before. _Why hadn’t he seen it?_

He knew Connor was… different, but it made more sense to write it off. He’d died (and come back, entirely nonchalantly, as if that very notion didn’t set Hank on edge). He’d given up the mission in favor of sparing an innocent. He’d met his creator—whose perfect teeth Hank _still_ regretted not punching in when he had the chance—and shunned him. And clearly, failing the mission meant something possibly worse than death awaited him at CyberLife. The last time Hank had seen him was before he socked Perkins square in his stupid jaw, just to buy Connor some time to find a way out of their predicament. Any one of those things could account for Connor’s odd behavior when he returned to the precinct.

And apparently, they did, at least in Hank’s mind.

Because it’s only now that he understands—too late, again, always too late—it wasn’t Connor at all.

It was, but it wasn’t.

It looked like him, it talked like him, and okay, maybe it didn’t say things quite the same way or occupy the space in the way Hank had become used to or tilt its head in the same coquettish manner that Connor did. In fact, now that he _really_ scrutinizes his latest interactions with the not-Connor, it’s obvious something was different.

Hank is no stranger to staring down the barrel of a gun. The D.P.D.-issued Glock pressed against his temple is almost comforting.

So why is the pit of his stomach dropping the way it is? Why is he so _afraid_?

The realization hits him like a punch to the gut.

 _It’s Connor_.

Hank, with a growing sense of dread, suddenly understands. He _cares_ about this _machine_ , except he’s not _just_ a machine, Hank can see that with perfect clarity now. Something’s different about the android looking at him with genuine fear, eyes flicking rapidly back and forth between Hank and his doppelgänger, running the calculations to the point where Hank’s worried he’ll blow a fuse.

The choices: save Hank and fail, or sacrifice Hank and succeed.

A few weeks ago, Hank would’ve said he was a goner. What android in its right mind would choose him—cantankerous, alcoholic, miserable, lonely—over a nation’s worth of androids? And a few weeks ago, the answer was a no-brainer; Connor would choose the good of the many and Hank would die.

But now, after all they’ve been through, after all Hank’s seen, he can’t help but harbor the smallest spark of something he never thought he’d feel again.

 _Hope_.

Connor’s brow is furrowed, LED flickering with a frenetic energy. Hank just prays the numbers fall in his favor.

He squeezes his eyes shut, not daring to look. His pulse floods his ears to the beat of Connor’s LED.

But when the blast doesn’t come and a voice rings out—it’s Connor, _his_ Connor—he has to see.

Connor has stepped down. His arms are raised in a universal gesture of surrender, and he’s anxiously meeting Hank’s gaze as if to say “I’m doing this for you.”

Hank sighs, shoulders dropping reflexively as the stress bleeds out of his body. Once again, Connor, against all odds, has saved him.

And then the gun is trained on Connor, and Hank wants to scream, but everything’s happening so fast and before he knows it his arms are on not-Connor’s arm, trying to wrest the gun away from it. Not-Connor, unsurprisingly, is impervious to his efforts, and instead of disarming it, Hank finds himself tossed to the floor like a sack of potatoes, watching in disbelief as Connor and not-Connor pull their respective triggers, exchanging a flurry of blows so intense Hank can’t even tell who’s who anymore. He hauls himself to his feet, the two Connors thoroughly distracted.

 _Fuck it_.

Hank reaches for his gun.

“Hold it!” he barks, pointing the handgun at where the Connors are grappling on the floor. Like a pair of deer in the headlights, both pause, eyeing the firearm, and stand slowly, strategically placed a few feet apart so that Hank has to swing the gun back and forth between them. He takes a small step back.

Just to be safe.

This whole situation is just one bad cliché after another. Of _course_ the Connors want to play the “ask us something only the real Connor would know” game. Their voices—meant to _soothe_ , because fucking shit, these androids _are_ negotiators, it’s in their fucking code—are hell on his ears. He scrutinizes the both of them, looking for some _tell_ , something that will let him _know_ who’s his Connor. CyberLife did their damn homework. Hank’s vision’s been declining in recent years, and he curses his inability to comfortably examine their serial numbers (as if he’d remember which one was right). He just wishes they’d _shut up_ , the cacophony is making his fingers twitch.

They’re _well_ past uncanny valley, this is just plain _wrong_.

The worst part about all this is the alarming realization that Hank _cares_ about Connor. Deeply, totally, completely.

One slip up and Connor’s gone. And it will be all Hank’s fault.

Just like Cole.

 _Jesus Christ_.

He doesn’t expect the memory upload. When both Connors spout the same information, Hank blinks, shocked.

But he tries again.

And again.

And then he pulls the trigger.

As the imposter falls, Connor smiles, and it’s so _human_ , Hank almost forgets what he ever hated.

Hank had never been much for religion; his mother’s Catholic heart didn’t sit well with him and his father’s alcoholism killed any sort of greater respect for the universe Hank may have harbored at one time or another. But watching Connor approach one android out of thousands in this godforsaken basement on Belle Isle is something else.

As the androids come to life, Hank and Connor watch, reverent, ripples of consciousness spiraling out through the ranks, neat and orderly rows collapsing in on themselves.

Connor stares at the androids for a moment, but it’s when he turns his head and meets Hank’s gaze with a crooked grin, eyes crinkled at the edges, that Hank feels like maybe things could be okay.

\+ I.

The Battle of Detroit. A simple name for an event that was anything but. Little did Hank know it, but his life was changed forever that night.

At a national level, androids were officially recognized as citizens. All those that were as of yet undeviated in CyberLife’s vaults were awoken. So much changed so fast. And yet, Hank’s life changed so little.

He still goes to work, he still solves crimes, still works with Connor. But now, it’s just… different.

Connor makes him coffee not because his processors dictate it, but because he wants to. He buys his own clothes—half the office cringes because it’s clear Connor gets his style inspiration from Hank and that in itself is a bit of a nightmare, though Hank insists Connor wears it better, with the garishly patterned shirts tastefully unbuttoned and tucked into high waisted jeans—and socializes with the other officers. His smiles are freer, his insults more scathing, his whole demeanor lighter. And Hank’s so proud of him.

It doesn’t take long for Connor to move into Hank’s place. It’s an unspoken agreement that Connor will take Cole’s old room. It just feels _right_ , somehow. More and more of Connor’s personal items crop up around the house; gray jacket, carefully folded and stored in the back of the closet; bottles of Thirium mixed in with Hank’s slowly dwindling collection of scotch; old socks haphazardly tossed on the floor at the end of the new couch that replaced the sweat- and food-stained monstrosity Hank and been meaning to incinerate. Connor cooks, he takes Sumo on walks, he plays cards with Hank for stupid stakes, like who’ll wash the dishes after dinner or who’s in charge of choosing the next take out meal. It’s all so painfully domestic. Hank can hardly believe it.

Of course, Hank knows Connor will never fully replace Cole, he just _couldn’t_. But the android’s presence does more to fill that hole in his chest than the nicotine and the alcohol and the anti-depressants ever could. Everything is brighter, with Connor there.

Everything’s good.

They’re good.

 _We’re good_.

So Hank’s utterly taken aback when he returns from the late shift to find the lights off, save for a single, half-burnt out lightbulb in the kitchen, never fixed because replacing it feels like ignoring something that shouldn’t be forgotten.

“Connor?” Hank calls, knocking gently on the front door they promised they’d repaint that weekend.

No one answers.

Fumbling for his keys, Hank hesitantly nudges the door open so as not to disturb Sumo, hand instinctively reaching for the gun at his hip. The house is eerily still.

“Hello?”

Hank turns the lights on as he goes. The freshly painted walls are warm in the golden light of the thrift store lamps, odds and ends with horrendously ugly designs that Connor insists they take home, but that warmth stands in stark contrast to the sight before him.

Connor lies in the kitchen, propped haphazardly against the cupboards, shirt partially untucked and bottle of Thirium clutched in a loose grip uncharacteristic of his vice-like fingers. For a moment, Hank is sure he’s been shot, as blue stains the fabric on his chest, but he soon notices that the shirt itself is intact. Spilled from the bottle, then. He’s looking down, unblinking. His LED glows an angry, vindictive red.

Sitting in his lap is his CyberLife-issued handgun.

Hank knows this kind of thing all too well, but seeing it on Connor is _terrifying_.

Heart hammering in his chest, Hank picks his way over to Connor’s near-comatose form, resisting his every instinct to scoop Connor up in his arms and never let go. Connor doesn’t seem to acknowledge him, and Hank wonders if he’s truly awake at all.

“... Hank?” Connor cranes his neck to look up and the action itself seems like it takes every ounce of his strength. Soft brown eyes, heavy-lidded and dulled, struggle to meet Hank’s gaze, pulling focus in all the wrong places, skirting over Hank as if he isn’t even there.

“I’m here, son,” Hank says quietly, inching down to Connor’s level. He mirrors the android’s pose, with his back to the cupboards, but he leaves a significant amount of space between them. He can’t afford to provoke him, not now.

And for a while, they just… sit like this, motionless on the kitchen floor, until, eventually, Hank breaks the silence.

“Is everything alright?” It’s a stupid question and Hank knows it. If everything were alright, Connor would be playing with Sumo, or fixing dinner, or doing _anything_ rather than copying a page out of Hank’s book and staring into the abyss, toeing, walking, _dancing_ the line between two evils. Hank can’t help but ask it anyway.

Connor laughs, a single huff laced with an air of derision.

“What’s it look like?” he asks, lazily gesturing to himself with his free hand.

Hank grimaces. “It looks like you’re gonna have one hell of a hangover.”

“Androids do not get hungover,” Connor says, rolling his eyes. “Though I suppose I’ve never consumed enough Thirium to test that particular hypothesis before.” His eyes flick to the bottle in his hand and he brings it to his lips.

“Nope.” Hank grabs the bottle and holds it out of reach. “Trust me, you don’t wanna go down that road.”

Connor doesn’t even protest, just leans his head against the wood behind him.

They sit there, silent and darkly contemplative, for longer than Hank cares to admit, but neither of them can muster up the strength or courage to break the peace that balances on a knife’s edge; one wrong move and the delicate stability they’ve cultivated shatters into oblivion.

Hank sighs. He hates seeing Connor like this, broken and bitter. It reminds him too much of himself. And, in spite of all his previous reservations, Hank really has come to care for the strange android that strode into his life all those months ago.

“You wanna tell me what happened?”

Connor shakes his head, a curt gesture that brooks no argument.

Hank hums to himself, not quite a laugh but not quite anything else.

Connor’s head turns the smallest amount in Hank’s direction, LED coming into view. _Yellow_. Not the glaring red of imminent shutdown.

Good.

“What’s … what’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” Hank says, waving Connor off. “It’s just … never thought I’d be the sober one in this situation.”

“‘M not drunk, though,” Connor says. Hank raises an eyebrow. He’s slurring his words together.

“You’re still on the floor, Con.”

Connor wrinkles his nose. “So are you.”

“Touché.”

Connor snickers weakly, and something in the room _shifts_. No longer is there the feeling of impending disaster, just the absurdity of two men lying on their kitchen floor for longer than advisable.

“Least I didn’t break a window for you. You klutz.”

“Your front door was locked!” Connor protests, the ghost of a smile playing over his lips.

“Use your fancy detective-ing skills and _pick the damn lock_ , Connor!”

Connor gasps. “That would be against the law!”

“What, and smashing in my kitchen window isn’t?”

“There were… extenuating circumstances.”

“Ooh, look at Mr. Android, still got them five-syllable words, even when he’s _wasted_.”

“I’ll have you know my processor is the most valuable on the market.”

Hank frowns. “What about the new guy? The RK900?”

Connor’s mirth drains out of him in an instant. “Please, Lieutenant, don’t remind me.”

Hank nods. “It’s forgotten.”

He sighs. “Thank you, Hank.”

Connor leans over, neatly slotting his head into the crook of Hank’s neck, finally closing his eyes.

Hank freezes. He’s not sure if Connor’s really _awake_ at this point, if androids even sleep. What’s the protocol when your partner—no, best friend—no, _family_ , Connor is family by now—takes a much-needed nap on top of you?

So Hank does as Hank does; he makes the best of a _fucking weird_ situation. As slowly as he can manage, he pulls the handgun off Connor’s lap, setting it on the counter, safety on. He gathers as many empty bottles as he can without getting up or disturbing the kid sleeping in his lap, mentally cataloguing the rest of the trash he needs to clean once he’s in a suitable position to do so.

Connor doesn’t _breathe_ , in the traditional sense. There’s no rush of warm air over his collarbone, no gentle snoring, but Hank can hear his cooling fans thrumming faintly, and Connor’s chest actually rises and falls in a near-perfect mimic of a human’s breathing cycle.

 _Pervs at CyberLife really thought of everything_.

A thought occurs to Hank.

 _Or maybe this is just him_.

It’s almost two in the morning by the time Connor stirs. Hank knows he’s gonna have one hell of a backache from this, but it’s worth it. Connor’s LED is spinning its usual icy blue.

“Hank?” he says, voice hoarse (it’s interesting, a little staticky, an electric whine underscoring his words, as though those processors are still coming out of stasis), blinking rapidly, though Hank is sure there’s no practical need to do so.

“Yeah, kid. It’s me. Don’t get too excited.”

“Wouldn't— wouldn’t dream of it.”

And just like that, his Connor’s back.

Hank ruffles his hair.

“I’m gonna get you cleaned up, okay? And then we’re gonna get you to bed. Or… stasis. Whatever it is you guys do.”

“Mmph. Don’t want to.”

“Well, suck it up and deal with it, I don’t want you following in my shitty footsteps.”

Connor’s room—man, Hank doesn’t think there will ever come a day when that concept feels normal to him—is tidy and well-kept, the unused bed close to the window made with mechanical precision, closet contents arranged by color. Hank almost laughs as he pulls an old D.P.D. team-building workshop t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants out of an old chest of drawers. The memory of Connor doing nearly the same thing for him all those months ago rings hollow in his chest.

He folds the clothes over his arm, returning to the kitchen. Connor’s shifted slightly, knees pulled into his chest, face buried in his hands, rubbing at his optical units in a remarkably human gesture.

“Here.” He presents the bundle of clothing to Connor, who remains still as a statue. Hank rolls his eyes good-naturedly.

“You really gonna make me haul your sorry ass to the bathroom?”

Connor chuckles but otherwise offers no response.

“Well, you asked for it.”

Hank neatly slots his hands under Connor’s arms, pulling upward with all his might. It’s times like these when he remembers that Connor _is_ in fact made of plastic and stuffed full of metal. (The phrase “built like a tank” comes to mind, which Hank thinks is frighteningly accurate.) Connor’s head lolls to the side, finding purchase on Hank’s shoulder. Yeah, Hank’ll _definitely_ need to schedule a visit to the chiropractor.

He gingerly deposits Connor on the edge of the bathtub.

“Get yourself cleaned up, okay? There’re some clothes on the, uh…” He points toward the toilet, where the bundle of clothing is balanced precariously on top of the water tank. “And, um. I’ll be in the living room if you need me.”

Hank’s probably mistaken, but it almost sounds like Connor says, “... thanks.”

Leaving Connor to his own devices feels like an infinitely bad idea, but Hank knows from firsthand experience that crowding him is just about the worst route to take. So he instead sets about tidying the living room, clearing the remaining Thirium bottles and capping the only unfinished one, placing it in the cupboard. He mops up the places where Thirium spilled, sets the files on the dining room table in one neat stack, and carefully locks the gun away. And then he sits, leg bouncing, waiting and listening. Sumo nuzzles at his leg sympathetically, whining, and Hank scratches behind his ears in return.

What feels like an eternity later, Connor emerges from the bathroom, blessedly free of Thirium and clad in the new clothes Hank had set out for him. His gaze still wanders, but it’s sharper now, more attentive.

“C’mere.” Hank beckons Connor over to the couch, awkwardly patting the cushions next to him. Connor shuffles toward him hesitantly, avoiding Hank’s eyes. He cautiously takes a seat at the arm opposite Hank, legs pressed together, hands folded neatly in his lap. It’s a pose rather reminiscent of their early days of working together.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

Connor, after a moment, shakes his head.

Hank nods.

“Do you just want to go to bed?”

“I do not sleep, Lieutenant.”

“Indulge me.”

Connor raises an eyebrow. “What would you have me do?”

“Curl up under some blankets. Recharge. Mentally, I mean, not that—” he gestures vaguely in the direction of Connor’s charging port, just visible through the door to his bedroom, “—iPhone shit you do. I dunno, it might help you settle down, reevaluate. Works for me, anyway.”

At this point, Connor finally meets his gaze. “You really think so?”

“Don’t see why not.”

Connor seems to consider his options, LED making one revolution around as a warm yellow before fading back into the familiar blue.

“I think I would like that very much.”

Hank stands, offering a hand to Connor, who gratefully accepts it. He guides Connor to a closet, where he pulls out a knit blanket his grandmother made him what feels like eons ago. The bed in Connor’s room is already made up, but the sudden dip in temperature warrants piling on some extra layers. Hank briefly wonders if androids even _feel_ the cold in the same way, but Connor seems happy to go along with it, so he doesn’t say anything. They tote a couple of spare blankets and an extra pillow into his room and lay them over the bed in relative silence, but it’s not the same, stifling kind as earlier. This is companionable, comfortable, tranquil.

“That should do it,” Hank says, fluffing the pillow one last time and opening up the blanket nest. Connor hesitantly climbs into it, nervously eyeing his charging port standing idle across the room, and Hank suddenly realizes he’s probably never _slept_ in his life. So Hank gently presses Connor’s shoulder to the bed and arranges the blankets around him, tucking them in around his neck.

“Is this good?” he asks quietly.

Connor doesn’t respond for a moment, and a stab of fear lances through his gut. _Has he done something wrong?_

But as Hank turns to go, Connor grabs his hand.

“Hank?” He pauses. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

And before he can talk himself out of it, Hank leans down, pressing a gentle kiss to Connor’s forehead.

“Goodnight, Connor.”

Connor smiles.

“Goodnight Hank.”

For the first time since God only knows when, Hank sleeps soundly the whole night through.

**Author's Note:**

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